


The Birthday Surprise

by SuburbanSun



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Best Friends, Birthday, F/M, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Pre-Series, SciOps Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2016-08-17
Packaged: 2018-08-09 06:57:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7791361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuburbanSun/pseuds/SuburbanSun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jemma’s idea of a birthday celebration isn’t quite what Fitz had in mind. Somehow in the end, that doesn't seem to matter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Birthday Surprise

**Author's Note:**

> To celebrate Leo Fitz’s upcoming birthday, [Team Engineering](http://teamengineering.tumblr.com/) decided to create a series of fanworks in honor of everyone’s favorite engineer! We’ll post one a day from now through August 19th. You can find the others [here](http://teamengineering.tumblr.com/tagged/fitz-birthday)! 
> 
> Quite loosely based on “Eagleton,” Parks and Rec 3x12. Happy birthday, Fitz!
> 
> Thanks to ardentaislinn and reymanova for the beta help!

“Hey, man, see you tomorrow,” said Agent Goodwin, an easy smile on his face as he passed Fitz in the corridor.

“See you then,” said Fitz, before frowning. Wait-- what was tomorrow?

He didn’t have time to give it further thought, though, as the formidable Agent Stevenson popped her head out of her corner office. “Agent Fitz,” said the older woman, peering at him through her severe wire-rimmed glasses. “A word?”

Fitz nodded stiffly, standing up a bit straighter. He followed her into her office and took a seat in one of the high-backed wooden chairs meant for guests. She ranked four levels above him, and had scarcely spoken to him during their time at SciOps. Five minutes ago, he would have put money on her not knowing his name.

“What can I do for you, Agent?” he asked, willing his knee to curtail its nervous bouncing.

Agent Stevenson’s eyes were fixed on the paperwork in front of her; she squinted at a page full of fine print, then signed and initialed it with an expensive-looking ballpoint pen. “Hmm?” When she finally looked up at Fitz, it was as if she’d forgotten he was there.

“Um, you, ah. Asked to see me.”

“Oh, yes,” she said, reaching up to remove her glasses. She watched him, her gaze thoughtful. A moment of silence passed. Then: “What kind of alcohol do you prefer?"

“I’m sorry-- what?”

“Logic would dictate that as a Scot, you’re a Scotch fan, but I learned long ago not to make assumptions.”

Fitz furrowed his brow, opening his mouth once or twice without speaking. She pressed on.

“Of course, you young people are fond of so many things I can hardly fathom.” She tilted her head to the side as if trying to work out a puzzle. “I understand _Jägermeister_ is popular amongst your demographic?”  

Before he could stop himself, Fitz gave a derisive scoff. “I’m 24, Agent Stevenson, not 19. About to be 25, in fact.” Catching himself, he cleared his throat and readjusted his posture. “Scotch is good. Vodka. Tequila, on occasion.”

Agent Stevenson hummed in understanding. She tapped one well-manicured finger against her desk and eyed him carefully. “And your birthday is August 19th, according to your personnel file.”

“Y-- yes.”

“Ah,” she said. She slipped her glasses back on her face and turned her attention to her paperwork. Fitz waited, rubbing his palms back and forth against the arms of the chair he sat in, blinking at her. After several seconds passed, she looked up. “You’re dismissed, Agent,” she said, then returned to her work.

Fitz stood, nearly tripping over the chair as he turned to leave her office, and muttered an awkward goodbye on his way out the door. What on Earth had _that_ been about?

Fortunately, he didn’t have long to stew in his own confusion.

“ _There_ you are!” Simmons grabbed him by the hand and pulled him down the hallway toward their lab. “Where have you been?”

“Agent Stevenson asked to speak with me,” he answered, letting himself be guided. “Odd bird, that one, isn’t she?”

Simmons threw an admonishing look over her shoulder. “That’s no way to speak about our superiors, Fitz!” She pulled him through the doorway of their shared lab and slid the door shut. “At least, not in earshot of them. Besides, she’s quite brilliant.”

“Well, all I’m saying is that she could brush up on her social skills.”

“Being the head of two departments at SciOps isn’t about social skills, Fitz,” Simmons said with a roll of her eyes. She seemed to realize she was still holding his hand, and dropped it, retreating to her lab station where her computer was already turned on.

“Still doesn’t give her a reason to bombard well-meaning agents who’re minding their own business with weird questions,” he said, though he felt much more bewildered than bothered. He trailed after Simmons, and his eyes lit on her computer screen, where a document was open.

‘GUEST LIST,’ it said in bold font at the top of the page. Underneath was a bulleted list of nearly everyone Fitz knew at SciOps, either in person or just by name. He stepped closer. _Maria Alvarez, Andrew Allen, Theo Creswell…_

“Who’d invite Theo Creswell anywhere?” He wrinkled his nose. Agent Creswell had been a sycophant at the Academy, and never had the brains to back it up. It was a wonder he’d been recruited at all.

When he met Simmons' eyes, she looked nervous, uncomfortable. She shuffled so her body blocked his view of the computer screen. “You don’t care for Agent Creswell?” Her voice sounded oddly high-pitched to Fitz’s ears.

“No. Do you?”

“Well, he’s not done anything to bother me, but-- duly noted.”

“What is all this, Simmons? Guest list?” He chuckled. “What’re you doing, throwing a party?” Then his mind whirred to a stop, finally allowing him to put the pieces together. His brain had been protecting him, no doubt, from the inevitable truth. “No…” he said breathlessly. “You’re not.”

“Fitz--”

“You can’t be.”

“It will be _fun_.”

“It will be _torture_ ,” he pleaded. His brows knitted together and he stood on his tiptoes, craning his neck to try to see the screen around her. She dodged back and forth, blocking his view each time. “Let me see it, Simmons!”

“See what, Fitz?” She whirled around and in one swift motion, had shut down her computer entirely. When she turned back to face him, she smiled in that way of hers that looked angelic but belied a harsh truth-- that Agent Jemma Simmons was not to be trifled with. Fitz sighed, shoulders slumping.

“Don’t,” he whined.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t throw me a birthday party and invite everyone we know.”

A smile played at the corners of her mouth, and she cocked her head to the side. “Fitz, when have I ever done anything without thinking it through?”

He sighed. “Never.”

“Precisely. Now,” she began, “don’t we have some results to tabulate?”

They did, and with precious little time to do so, too. It was why they were at work on a Saturday morning to begin with. With a huff and the harshest glare he could muster, Fitz followed Simmons’ lead. Perhaps if he threw himself into hours of labwork, he could sleep through his birthday entirely and miss whatever embarrassing nonsense his so-called best friend had planned.

 

 

Of course, sleeping through his 25th birthday was not an option Jemma Simmons would allow. The scent of sizzling bacon and hot pancakes wafting from their apartment’s tiny kitchen woke him up at 11 in the morning. _The trickster._ His nose led him out of bed and into the living room, where he found a plate full of delicious food waiting for him on the coffee table, and no Simmons to be found.

A folded sheet of Simmons’ stationary (mint green and emblazoned with a swirling cursive “JS”) sat on the table beside the platter. Fitz shuffled over in his plaid boxers and rumpled white t-shirt, plucked up the note, and plopped onto the couch.

“Dearest Fitz,” it read. He wrinkled his nose at the endearment. “Happiest of birthdays to you! I still fondly remember when you were a wee lad of just 16. My, how you’ve grown!”

“Ugh, Simmons,” he mumbled, but continued to read.

“I’m so sorry I couldn’t be home to bear witness to your glorious birthday bedhead, but I had to pop out to collect the last of the supplies for this evening. Tonight’s the big night! Get excited. I’ll be back before you know it! Yours, Simmons.”

She always did tend to get strangely affectionate around his birthday. Simmons was as odd as Agent Stevenson, in many ways. Fitz glanced over the note one last time before neatly folding it back up and tucking a corner of it beneath a stack of science periodicals so it wouldn’t blow away. Dread had slowly begun to build in the pit of his stomach, but it battled with hunger, and in the end, hunger always won out. He dug into the pancakes with gusto, sparing a moment to appreciate the fact that Simmons had mixed both blueberries _and_ chocolate chips in, just the way he liked it.

It was only after he’d had time to digest his breakfast that the worry settled back in with a vengeance.

Two o’clock hit before Simmons came rushing through the door, paper bags in both hands. Fitz looked up from where he was playing video games on the couch, still in his pajamas, and frowned when he saw the spoils of her shopping trip.

“There’s the birthday boy!” She grinned at him as she toed off her shoes in the entryway.

Fitz scowled. “Don’t call me that.”

She quirked an eyebrow. “Birthday man?”

“Just pretend it’s not my birthday. You can do that, can’t you?” He grouchily mashed a button on the controller to unpause his game.

“Shall I take my pancakes back, then?” She crossed the apartment toward her bedroom, leaning over the back of the couch to press a kiss to his cheek in the process. His thumb slipped on the controller and his avatar fired a burst of ammo at nothing; a misfire in his brain, perhaps. He shrugged.

“No. They were delicious.”

“Thought so!” she crowed as she slipped into her room. She shut the door behind her, presumably to concoct all manner of humiliating torture for him. _What’s in those bags, anyway?_  he wondered as he idly killed zombies on the TV screen. She’d probably had special banners printed with his baby pictures on them. Surely she was in cahoots with his mum-- she certainly loved Simmons enough to help her out. He pressed “A” especially hard and stabbed a zombie through the chest, giving him a fleeting moment of satisfaction. He let his eyes flick to the clock on the DVD player. At least there were less than ten hours left until whatever birthday torment she had in store for him could officially come to an end.

Fitz fretted all afternoon, and began to worry in earnest when Jemma didn’t come out of her room until 5:30.

“Just a couple more hours,” she sing-songed on her way to the kitchen, and he blanched.

“So, 7:30, then? That’s when the agony is going to commence?”

She simply gave him an enigmatic look as she opened the fridge, turning to hunt around inside. “I know it’s your turn to cook,” she called out, voice muffled by fresh produce and half-empty bottles of condiments. “But I thought I’d make us spagbol the way you like it. Will that be alright?”

“With beef _and_ sausage?” he asked hopefully, setting the journal he’d been reading while lounging on the couch in his lap.

“With no lectures about your cholesterol. The Fitz Birthday Special.”

His mouth began to water, and he bit his lip. From a food perspective, Simmons had been entirely kind to him so far today. Perhaps he shouldn’t begrudge her _one little party_?

“It’s what every growing boy deserves!” she chirped, nudging the fridge door shut, both hands full of packaged meat. His goodwill faded. He could eat her spagbol and begrudge her her party, too. It was his right as the birthday boy-- er, man. _No. Both sound weird._

By seven, they were sitting side by side on the couch as they twirled their forks in bowls of pasta. Fitz had to admit, Simmons made a mean spagbol. “It’s the oregano,” she’d once said, and he’d tried to replicate her recipe while she visited her parents for two weeks the previous year, but it hadn’t tasted _quite_ as delicious as when she made it. That had been a very long two weeks.

“Thank you for dinner, Simmons,” he said, scraping the last bit of sauce from the bottom of his bowl. “And breakfast,” he added as an afterthought.

“Only the best for--”

“Don’t say it!”

She giggled. “Alright, alright. You win. Only the best for my Fitzy.”

“Not better,” he grumbled, but really, he couldn’t find it in himself to mind much. He felt full and satisfied. He’d spent the vast majority of his birthday lounging around their apartment in the clothes he’d slept in the night before. He’d spent a good deal of it with his best friend. If a loud and raucous party was the price he’d pay for a day of all his favorite things, perhaps he could afford it.

“I suppose I should be getting dressed, eh?” he asked with a sigh. “Are jeans okay, or is this more of a black tie affair?” He suggested the latter in jest, then held his breath in fear she’d affirm that it was.

But she only shrugged. “Whatever you’re comfortable in is fine.”

He frowned. “So I could go in this, then?”

She let her head loll to the back of the couch, smiling at him with a fond expression he’d grown familiar with over the years, even as she still managed to surprise him. “Maybe not _quite_ so casual.” She gestured to his shirt, where a pair of rogue splashes of sauce had stained the white cotton a bright red. “It’s not a Jackson Pollack, but it’s getting there.”

Fitz rubbed at the stain with his thumb, but only seemed to make it worse. He felt his cheeks heat a bit before he remembered it was his birthday, and he could stain his undershirt if he wanted to. “I’ll just…” He made for his bedroom, stacking Simmons’ bowl inside his own and placing them gently in the sink on his way.

Twenty minutes later, he emerged freshly-showered and wearing somewhat of a compromise-- his nicest jeans and a red-and-blue checked button-down, but untucked, no tie. He was busy checking that his wallet was in his back pocket, his eyes skimming a “happy birthday!” text from his cousin, as he shut the door behind him.

“Alright, Simmons, I guess I’m…” he trailed off as he looked up. In the short time he’d been getting ready, she had managed to transform the room, in a manner of speaking. He scanned their living quarters with wide eyes, finally landing on Simmons, standing in the middle of the room, wearing her favorite cardigan, a hopeful smile on her face. “What--?

“Happy birthday, Fitz.” Her voice was soft, and her grin widened.

“Aren’t we--”

“--going to a party?” She laughed, gesturing for him to sit down on the couch, where he’d already spent so much of his day. “Heavens, no. What kind of best friend would I be if I thought you’d enjoy a loud, raucous party with people we barely know?” Her laugh grew incredulous as she sat down beside him. “And Theo Creswell, of all people! He’s the biggest--”

“--sycophant we’ve ever met? Yeah, I know.”

“Exactly. Why would I invite him of all people to your birthday party?”

Fitz worked his jaw in confusion. “But-- the guest list--”

“Just a list of people we know. Well, vaguely know, in certain cases. None of them were invited anywhere.”

_What?_ “But-- Agent Stevenson! And-- whatshisface? Goodwin! He said he’d see me tomorrow. Sounded ominous, that one.”

Simmons pulled one leg up onto the couch and tucked her foot underneath her, shifting to face him more fully. “I asked them both to play along. Goodwin owed me a favor, and Stevenson loves me.”

“She does not,” he said, disbelieving, but Simmons only nodded.

“She absolutely does. And why shouldn’t she?”

Fitz glanced around the room-- at the TV paused on the opening of his favorite episode of Doctor Who. At the plate of his favorite brownies, the ones with little pretzel bits mixed in, sitting atop the coffee table. At the bowl of popcorn, its buttery scent wafting upward, wedged in next to them. He noticed his favorite board game hiding beneath the table and his telescope set up at the open window, and over on the kitchen counter, an open bottle of Scotch and two glasses. Jemma always turned her nose up at Scotch except on special occasions. He surveyed it all with a little half-smile, before turning back to her, his best friend in the world.

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t she?”

Simmons grinned in response. “I’m glad we agree.” She reached out a hand to squeeze his upper arm, her touch warm through two layers of fabric. “You’ve just been working _so_ hard lately, I thought you deserved a night in with all your favorite things.” She shrugged one shoulder as she drew her hand back. “Well, a whole day, really.”

“Simmons, this is--”

“--your ideal birthday celebration? I thought as much.”

He rested his elbow on the back of the couch and propped his cheek on his palm, watching her in awe. “Yeah.” He smiled at her goofily for a long moment, before realizing himself and straightening in his seat. “Wait a second. Why go to all that trouble to trick me into thinking you’re throwing me my worst nightmare of a birthday party, if you were just going to give me everything I could have wanted?”

The twinkle in her eye might have struck fear into the hearts of lesser men. Fitz pressed his mouth in a tight line as she smiled.

“You thought I’d forgotten the way you had the lab assistants convince me they’d managed to evaporate all my samples last month? Oh, Fitz. _Yesterday_ wasn’t your birthday, so retaliation was fair game.”

He winced, scratching idly at the side of his jaw. He had done that, hadn’t he? “Yeah, yeah.”

“Oh, and Fitz?”

“Yeah?”

“Tomorrow isn’t your birthday, either.” She reached over and picked up the fattest brownie from the stack, innocently offering it to him. “Sweet?”

Gingerly taking it, he vowed constant vigilance for tomorrow. For tonight, he’d just enjoy having his favorite things in the world, with his favorite person in the world. It would be enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Want to hang out on Tumblr? I'm unbreakablejemmasimmons over there!


End file.
